Curious thing that to-day--after disappointment of failure for the
Bar--letter comes from President of my old College, asking me "if I
would accept a nice Tutorship for a time?" If so, "I had better come
down and talk to him about it."
Decided a little time ago not to try "Scholastic Profession"--thought
it would try _me_ too much. Feel tempted now. _Query_--am I losing my
old pluck? In consequence of my new "pluck,"--in the Bar Exam?
"Um!" remarks the President (I _have_ run down and got a vacant
bed-room in College). "Glad to see you. Oh, yes, about that tutorship.
Um, um! The family live in Somerset." He mentions the county
apologetically, as if he expected me to reply--"Oh, Somerset! Couldn't
dream of going _there_. Not very particular, but must have a place
within ten miles of Charing Cross." As I don't object to Somerset, at
least audibly, he goes on more cheerfully--
"Boy doesn't want to be taught much, so perhaps, it would suit
you."--(_Query_--is this insulting?)--"He wants a companion
more--somebody to keep him steady, have a good influence and all that,
and give him a little classics and so on for about an hour a day."
It did not sound as bad as I expected.
"Rich people--um--merchants at Bristol, I think. Not very cultivated,
though." Here President pauses again, and looks as if he would not be
at all astonished if I rose from my chair, put on my hat, and said,
"Not very cultivated! That won't suit _me_! You see how tremendously
cultivated _I_ am." But I don't, and he proceeds calmly to another
head of his discourse.
"They haven't mentioned terms, but I'm sure they will be
satisfactory--give you what you ask, in fact." (Rather a nice trait
in their character, this.)--"Now, will you--um--take it? They want
somebody at once."
"Yes," I reply; "I'll go and see how I fancy it. Have they got a
billiard-table, do you happen to know?"
The President says, "he doesn't know anything about _that_," and looks
a little surprised, as if I had proposed a game of skittles.
On way down (next day) I feel rather like a Governess going to her
first situation. Get to house late. Too dark to see what it's like.
Have to drive up in a village fly. _Query_--Oughtn't they to have sent
their carriage for me?
My reception is peculiar. A stout, masculine-looking female with a
strident voice, is presumably Mrs. BRISTOL MERCHANT.
Sends me up to my bed-room as if I were my own luggage. Evidently very
"uncultivated."
In my bed-room. Above are the sounds of a small pandemonium,
apparently. Stamping, falling, shouting, bumping, crying. What a lot
of them there must be!
There are! At supper--they appear to have early dinners, which I
detest--three boys and one girl present, as a sample. Eldest a youth
about ten, who puts out his tongue at me, when he thinks I'm not
looking, and kicks his brothers beneath the table to make them cry,
which they do. I begin to wonder when my real pupil will appear.
Governess talks to me as if I were a brother professional.
_Query--infra dig_. again?
Children, being forbidden to talk in anything but French at meals, say
nothing at all; at the end I am astounded at Materfamilias catching
hold of the boy of ten, and bringing him round to me, with the
remark,--
"Perhaps you'd like to talk to ERNIE about lessons."
Heavens! This nursery fledgling to be my pupil! And I am to be his
"companion"! Fledgling, while standing in front of me for inspection,
has the audacity to stretch out his leg, and trip up a little sister
who is passing. Howls ensue.
A nicely-mannered youth!
"You will have to behave yourself with _me_, young man!" I warn him,
in a tone which ought to abash him, but doesn't in the least.
"Ah, but perhaps you won't stay here long," is his rather able
rejoinder. "Our Governesses never--"
"ERNIE!" shrieks his mother, threateningly. ERNIE stops; and I have
time to regret my folly in not inquiring of the President the precise
age of my promising disciple, very likely President didn't know
himself.
The other boys who were at supper are now presented to me. One is
about eight, the other not more than six.
"These are HERBIE and JACK," says their mother, who ought to know.
Thank Heaven, _they_ are not my pupils!